


I will walk 500 miles (but I would rather not)

by katsumi



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Piggyback Rides, dumbs being dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-14 09:32:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9173881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumi/pseuds/katsumi
Summary: Monty's thrown off when he learns that Nate's ex-boyfriend was super fit and into doing outdoorsy things. So Monty convinces Clarke to start hiking with him in a last ditch attempt at athleticism, because he might not be Nate's ideal type, but he's not about to lose Nate without a fight.(Turns out he and Clarke have no business hiking, ever, for the good of humanity.)





	

Monty is perched somewhat precariously on the edge of Nate’s kitchen counter when he sees the photo, which is unfortunate, because he almost falls off.

 

He catches himself in time to keep from toppling over onto the tile floor and brings Miller’s phone closer, scrolling back up until yep, there it is: Nate at an indoor rock-climbing gym, sweaty and grinning, his arm slung around the shoulders of a stunning brown-haired man.

 

The thing is, Monty hadn’t meant to pull up the photo. Nate had wanted him to double check that he could substitute baking soda for baking powder in the pancake recipe, and Monty had accidentally opened Timehop (which, for someone who’s so grumpy about sentimentality, why would you put an app all about shoving past memories down your throat on the _first page of apps, seriously_ ).

 

So, it’s not like a new photo; the “2 years ago” banner is pretty obvious. And it’s not like Nate _meant_ to show it to him as some kind of cruel prank or something.

 

But the sight of it is still like a sharp stab to Monty’s spleen.

 

The thing is, he’s always known about Bryan, like, theoretically. In that, he’s known about the existence of another person named Bryan whom Nate dated in his first year out of college. But it’s one thing to know this and quite another to see the evidence of it—the extremely chiseled, sharp-jawed evidence of it—firsthand.

 

“What’s the verdict?” Nate asks, twisting to look back at Monty.

 

Monty flinches, closing Timehop as fast as he can. “Sorry, I, uh. I’m still looking.”

 

“I’m pretty sure I can use either. It’s just powder. They’re basically the same,” Nate says, eyeing the mixing bowl like he’s about a minute away from just eating the batter raw.

 

“If they were the same, they’d have the same name. Let me check.”

 

“C’mon, go faster. I’m hungry.”

 

“You’re so bossy,” Monty grumbles.

 

Nate raises an eyebrow, his smile all teeth.

 

“I thought you liked that about me,” he says, and Monty tries his hardest to scowl instead of blush. He winds up somewhere in the middle, with a blotchy scrunchy-face that makes Nate laugh out loud.

 

That’s the other thing: things with Nate are good. Really good. Like Monty hasn’t slept in his own bed in the last week and a half kind of good. Like he’s currently pajama-clad in Nate’s kitchen, watching his boyfriend make blueberry pancakes on a Saturday morning kind of good.

 

It would be stupid to ruin their objectively awesome four month relationship by getting hung up on a photo that was taken two years ago of someone Nate never even mentions. Right? Right.

 

* * *

 

“Tell me about Bryan,” Monty says to Clarke the next day, because he’s a self-sabotaging disaster of a person.

 

Clarke blinks at him, still only halfway seated at their usual table in the corner of the coffee shop. “Oh, Monty,” she says, cocking her head. “What did you do?”

 

“Nothing,” Monty huffs, curling his palms tighter around his enormous mug of cinnamon spice latte. “I’m just curious. You never mention him.”

 

“Why would I be casually bringing up your boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend?” Clarke asks, reasonably, unwrapping her sandwich. Monty feels a little bad about foisting this upon her during her lunch break—she only gets, like, twenty minutes—but not bad enough to stop himself.

 

“Because there are things I should know,” he says. When she hasn’t been studying for her art degree, Clarke’s been working part-time at the same coffee shop as Nate. It’s how Monty _met_ Nate. Clarke has vast arrays of Nate-related knowledge and frankly should not be surprised she’s being asked to reveal them.

 

“Like what?” Clarke asks.

 

“Like the fact that he’s _beautiful_?” Monty says, a little desperately. “Like, someone warning me about that would have been nice.”

 

Clarke tilts her head, her smile flirting the line between sympathetic and annoyed. “Monty. I love you and I don’t want to dismiss your feelings. But what does it matter what Bryan looks like?”

 

Monty swallows. “I saw a picture. He looks like he could bench press my entire bodyweight. Do you think he could bench press my entire bodyweight?”

 

Clarke keeps chewing for a few seconds longer than necessary, which is answer enough.

 

“Great,” Monty moans.

 

“You realize you’re not going to have to, like, duel him for Miller’s affections, though, right?” Clarke asks. “Like the fact that he’s stronger than you means nothing.”

 

“It’s not that he’s stronger,” Monty says, thinking back to that photo of the two of them at the gym, the smile stretched so wide across Nate’s face. “It’s that...he’s athletic, right?”

 

Clarke shrugs. “Yeah.”

 

“He and Nate used to do athletic things things together?”

 

“I guess so,” Clarke says. “They went hiking a lot. They were part of a basketball pickup league, which Miller kept getting me to try to join. Well, and the triathlon.”

 

Monty’s stomach sinks. “The what?”

 

“You haven’t heard about the triathlon?” Clarke asks, definitely trending more towards sympathetic now. “They trained for months. Bellamy even joined them. He went through a super charming period where he’d wear his medal every time he came in here, until Miller made him stop.”

 

Monty is suddenly overcome by the desire to chug as much coffee as is physically possible, which he just barely stops himself from giving into.

 

Clarke reaches out and grasps his hand. “Monty. None of this _matters_. You know that, right?”

 

Monty bites his lip, nodding. “Yeah. I do.”

 

* * *

 

“So,” Monty asks later that night, settling into bed next to Nate, “you’ve done triathlons?”

 

“Just one,” Nate answers, not even looking away from his book. Like just doing _one_ crazy insane race instead of many is no big deal at all.

 

“One’s a lot,” Monty grumbles, burrowing down under the covers. He stretches until his frigid feet come in contact with Nate’s calf. Nate grimaces at the cold but, as always, says nothing. (He gets the luxury of being a living furnace with excellent circulation, so he can with Monty’s _icicle toes_ , as he calls them.)

 

“It was fun,” Nate says, flipping the page. Beneath the covers, he wraps one leg around Monty’s, trapping Monty’s foot between his calves.

 

“Think you’d ever do one again?” Monty asks.

 

Nate shrugs. “Probably not. The training took way too much time. I had to get up at the crack of dawn to fit rides in.”

 

“You already get up at 6:00 to go to the gym,” Monty points out.

 

“Which is way better than 4:00,” Nate says.

 

Monty turns on his side, burying his face into the pillow. Nate’s sheets are soft and flannel and smell like him, which is comforting in times like this, when he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

 

“Do you still play basketball?” he asks, trying to mask the warble in his voice.

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“Clarke mentioned you were on a pick-up team?”

 

Nate sticks his bookmark between the pages and drops the book on the nightstand, turning to face Monty. “Yeah, a team that’s now defunct because she kept refusing to join and we never had enough players.”

 

“To field a five person team? That’s sad. You need more friends.”

 

Nate smiles, slipping his arm around Monty’s waist. “Why, you want to join?”

 

Monty tries really hard to remain neutral, but he must make a face indicative of his personal feelings about basketball (hint: not positive) because Nate snorts.

 

“Thought so,” he says. “Why so concerned about my fitness level all of a sudden?”

 

“I’m not _concerned_ ,” Monty retorts. “I’m _curious_.”

 

“Want me to satisfy that curiosity for you?” Nate asks, his smile sharp as his palm slides underneath Monty’s shirt and up the line of his side. “I promise I haven’t lost my stamina.”

 

Monty rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I—”

  
But then Nate’s kissing him, rolling him onto his back and pressing him down into the mattress, and Monty completely loses track of whatever he was about to say.

 

* * *

 

Basketball is out of the question. Monty hates basketball. He watches it sometimes because Nate likes it, and Monty likes Nate, but he spends way more time admiring the flash of Nate’s teeth when he whoops at the screen than actually watching the game.

 

He actually considers the triathlon thing for a second—He could train! He could make and reach goals! He could buy his own thing of protein powder!—until he spends time googling what a triathlon actually entails.

 

“I don’t understand how that’s physically possible,” he complains to Jasper, stuffing more clothes into a suitcase he’ll bring to Nate’s later. Jasper shrugs, handing him a sock that’s fallen off the bed.

 

“Don’t ask me,” Jasper says. “I failed the presidential physical fitness test in high school.”

 

“I know,” Monty says. “I was there. It was quite something to watch you try to do a pull-up.”

 

“Shut up,” Jasper says, without heat. “You _barely_ did your pull-up.”

 

“And yet, I did do it. But one pull-up six years ago still probably doesn’t bode well for my ability to do a triathlon, right?”

 

Jasper flicks a pair of Monty’s boxers at him. “Please don’t. You’ll die. And I don’t want a new roommate. You’re the perfect roommate. You’re never here.”

 

“Thanks,” Monty says, rolling up the boxers and putting them in the suitcase. (He adds five more pairs on top of that, because Jasper’s annoying, but he’s not wrong: Monty’s never home anymore.)

 

Still, Monty has to admit, he has no business training for a triathlon. He bikes to work, but that’s like three flat miles each way, and sometimes even that feels like a lot. He’s not going to get up early to do _more_ biking on top of that.

 

“So,” Monty says to Clarke, a few days later, “hiking. What do you know about hiking?”

 

He and Clarke are sitting on Nate’s couch, which is funny because they’re the only ones home and neither of them actually live there. Clarke likes to come over after her shift sometimes “to wait out traffic before heading home,” which Monty strongly suspects is code for “to wait for more opportunities to aggressively flirt with Bellamy.”

 

Clarke glances at him. “You walk up a mountain. Then you walk back down. That’s all I’ve got.”

 

“You don’t hike?”

 

Clarke raises one delicate eyebrow, and Monty laughs. Clarke’s staunch anti-athleticism is one of his favorite things about her. He’s still not sure how someone can be so hot and so lazy at the same time, but Clarke has been pulling it off since high school. It’s honestly impressive.

 

“What if we went hiking?” Monty asks. “This weekend.”

 

“Why?” Clarke asks, as though Monty just asked her to join a doomsday cult.

 

He shrugs. “For, like...nature? Vitamin D? These are good things, I hear.”

 

“Overrated,” Clarke huffs. But then she looks at Monty for a moment, eyes narrowed. She must see the desperation on his face, because she sighs. “Fine. I’ll try nature. But only for you.”

 

“Thanks,” Monty says, beaming. “We can invite Bellamy if you want.”

 

“Why would I want that?” says Clarke, who very clearly wants that.

 

“He probably knows more about hiking than us,” Monty says. “We can mooch off of his expertise.”

 

“It’s literally just walking up and then down a mountain. What more expertise do you need?” But Clarke’s smiling, that little half-smile she always makes when she’s insulting Bellamy to mask how fond she is of Bellamy, and Monty has to hide his grin behind his hand.

 

“Should we push it back, though?” Clarke asks, checking her phone. “I think Miller’s on shift this weekend.”

 

“Uh, no,” Monty says. “I mean, yes, he’s on shift. But it’s fine. He won’t mind if we hike without him.”

 

Clarke shoots him a look which probably means _the hell are you talking about, I barely see you without him anymore_ , which, touché. But he figures he should at least cultivate some baseline level of hiking talent before Nate has to see him try it.

 

“Anyway,” Monty says quickly, knowing this will be a successful diversion tactic, “did you hear that Bellamy’s trying to expand his cooking repertoire? He made us chicken fried rice last night and it was not as terrible as I thought it would be.”

 

This launches Clarke on a rant about Bellamy’s “fascist refusal to cook anything with cheese,” and Monty considers his distraction a success.

 

Bellamy eventually comes home and pretends to be surprised to find them there. He cooks them pasta—without cheese, which Monty knows he’s doing out of spite—and they open a bottle of wine and eat around the coffee table watching old episodes of The West Wing on Netflix. Monty lets himself forget about the picture and the hiking and all of it, losing himself in the pleasures of warm food and banter and intermittent texts from Nate about how he’s going to _murder Murphy one of these days I swear to god_.

 

Nate has the closing shift that night, so by the time he gets home Monty’s struggling to keep his eyes open, curled into a ball on the chair. Clarke, who should have gone home hours ago, is fast asleep with her head in Bellamy’s lap, and Bellamy is patting her head fondly, blatantly no longer concentrating on the TV. (It’s things like this that Monty keeps using as proof that Clarke should just suck it up and spill her feelings, already.)

 

Monty closes his eyes, listening to Nate hang up his things and exchange hushed whispers with Bellamy. Then Nate’s breath is warm on his cheek, his palm shaking Monty’s shoulder gently. Monty cracks open an eye, and Nate’s face is all he can see: scratchy stubble and full lips and warm, brown eyes.

 

“Bed, babe,” Nate whispers, and Monty’s chest seizes with happiness.

 

Monty curls against Nate after they climb into bed, burying his nose in his boyfriend’s neck.

 

“I like you,” he says, on the brink of sleep, all fuzzy and soft and happy.

 

“Even your nose is cold,” Nate mumbles, pressing his lips against Monty’s forehead, which Monty knows means _I like you, too_.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Nate slides behind Monty as he’s brushing his teeth and says, conversationally: “So, you’re going hiking with Bellamy this weekend?”

 

Monty almost spits toothpaste all over the mirror.

 

“And Clarke!” he half-chokes.

 

“Any reason?” Nate asks, resting his hand on Monty’s hip as he leans over to grab his own toothbrush. This bathroom is not big enough for two people, but Nate’s never let that stop him and Monty really can’t find it in himself to mind.

 

“Nature?” Monty offers.

 

“You hate nature.”

 

“Untrue,” Monty says. “I like plants.”

 

“Growing them and talking incessantly about them,” Nate says. “Not exercising with them.”

 

This is a fair point.

 

“I thought I’d try it,” Monty says. “Since you like hiking.” He leans forward to spit, purposefully pressing his hips back against Nate in the process. The hand on his waist tightens.

 

“Monty,” he says, voice catching just a little. “You don’t have to like it just because I like it.”

 

“I know that,” Monty lies.

 

* * *

 

Just, the more Monty thinks about it, the clearer it becomes that most of the things he and Nate do together are Monty things, not Nate things. Battlestar Galactica marathons: Monty thing. Cooking and then eating copious amounts of pancakes: Monty thing. Staying up way too late playing video games even though Nate has the opening shift at the coffee shop the next morning: clearly a Monty thing.

 

So the sinking feeling in his stomach is brought on not just by the fact that Bryan is beautiful and shaped like a child’s action figure, although that’s not exactly helping Monty’s self-esteem. It’s that Bryan was clearly all about doing Nate things. He was probably the poster child for Nate things.

 

And while Monty’s never going to be the poster child, he can at least do better than he’s doing now. Even if that means hiking. At the crack of dawn. With Clarke and Bellamy.

 

Turns out, inviting Bellamy was a mistake. Monty (correctly) thought doing so would increase Clarke’s willingness to come, but he’d forgotten to take into account how stupidly competitive they are around each other. All Bellamy has to do is suggest they try a relatively flat, three mile loop, and Clarke’s glaring daggers at him.

 

“We can do a real trail, Bellamy,” she nearly spits. “We’re not infants.”

 

Which is how they wind up on a six mile death march up the side of a cliff.

 

Turns out, hiking involves a bit more than just walking up a mountain and back down again. It involves sweat, and bugs, and more sweat, and feeling like your lungs are about to explode, and getting your sneakers stuck in mud, and also sweat. Monty keeps making them stop, half the time because he feels like he’s about to die, and half the time because Clarke _looks_ like she’s about to die but won’t admit it in front of Bellamy.

 

Bellamy is actually super patient about the whole thing, moving branches out of their way and reminding them to put on sunscreen and retying Clarke’s shoelaces for her when they come undone. It’s pretty cute, and Monty’s kind of sorry Clarke’s too winded and cranky to appreciate it. But he’s also too winded and cranky himself to feel bad about it for long.

 

With all their stops, it takes hours to reach the end of the trail. Monty strongly suspects that Bellamy has just shooed them towards a random scenic overpass and announced that they’ve made it, and they’re not at the real end of the trail yet.

 

Whatever. He doesn’t care. He forfeits.

 

He slumps down on a rock beside Clarke and digs out the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches Bellamy packed for them, wishing they had about 8 more because he’s so goddamn hungry. Bellamy’s off looking over the cliff, surveying the landscape, and Clarke glares at his back.

 

“He’s not even sweaty, Monty,” she grumbles.

 

“He is.”

 

“Not as much as we are.”

 

“Well that’s not a fair comparison. I don’t think anyone in the history of the universe has ever been as sweaty as we are right now.”

 

Clarke moans in agreement.

 

Monty had grand visions of taking a selfie at the summit and sending it to Nate, proof that he could do this one act of athleticism. In his fantasy, he’d look just as cute—less buff, obviously, but just as cute—as Bryan in this photo, with windswept hair and a wide smile.

 

In reality, he catches one glimpse of himself when he switches his phone to selfie mode and immediately switches back. He can’t let Nate see this.

 

He takes a picture of Bellamy and Clarke instead, urging them closer until their arms are practically wrapped around each other. He lies and says it’s so they’ll fit in the shot, and Clarke glares at him a little as Bellamy’s arm slides comfortably around her shoulder, but she honestly doesn’t look like she minds much at all.

 

Monty sends the picture to Nate.

 

 **Monty  
** they’re smiling, but one of them is probably gonna be thrown off this cliff in the next 5 minutes  
stay tuned

 

 **Nate  
** hope it’s bellamy tbh  
how’s the hike?

 

 _Terrible_ , Monty thinks. _I cannot express in words how much I hate this._

 

 **Monty  
** Great!!

 

He’s hopeful that they’re over the hump, but it turns out going down might actually be harder than going up. Monty truly didn’t think this was possible, but going down involves using lots of leg strength to keep yourself from losing all control and rolling like a human bowling ball. Bellamy insists on going first, so that if either Clarke or Monty trip, they’ll crash into him instead of a tree or rock or something. Clarke actually does trip a few times, which Monty swears is just because she wants an excuse to press herself up against Bellamy’s back. But he’s too tired to even make fun of her for it.

 

By the time they reach Clarke’s car, it’s late afternoon and he’s an exhausted, sweat-stained mess. Bellamy offers to drive, and Clarke actually lets him, a true sign of just how tired she is. Bellamy punches the coordinates for his and Nate’s apartment into his phone, but Monty asks if he can just take him back to his and Jasper’s, instead.

 

“I just need to sleep,” he explains, and Bellamy obliges.

 

Jasper’s shocked to see him, both in their apartment on the weekend and, you know, covered head to toe in dirt.

 

“I thought I told you not to triathlon,” Jasper says, as Monty shuffles towards the bathroom. He closes the door behind him without answering.

 

He feels a bit better after showering, well enough to order some pizza with Jasper and lounge on the couch for a few hours. He heads to bed at the depressingly early hour of 8:15, which Jasper teases him relentlessly for, but whatever, he’s earned it.

 

It’s been a few weeks since he’s slept in his own bed, and it’s an odd sensation, turning towards the gaping expanse to his left side where Nate usually sleeps. He pulls out his phone.

 

 **Monty  
** How was work?

 

Nate’s response is so fast, Monty kind of wonders whether he’s been holding his phone, waiting for a text.

 

 **Nate  
** fine. Fuck murphy.  
hike went okay?  
clarke’s asleep on our couch again  
I figured you might be tired too?

 

Monty smiles.

 

 **Monty  
** yeah kinda wiped

 

 _Kinda_ is an understatement, but he’s going to preserve some shred of dignity, damnit.

 

 **Monty  
** going to bed soon

 

Monty watches as the ellipsis pops up, then disappears, then pops up again. A little while later:

 

 **Nate  
** okay  
sleep well

 

Monty’s not sure how to communicate his standard goodnight to Nate—a kiss on the lips, his fingers tracing light lines against Nate’s cheek—over the phone. The best he can come up with is a heart emoji, but that seems insincere. And while _I like you_ is a perfectly reasonable and even romantic thing to say to someone when you’re tangled up with them in bed, over the phone it makes palpable the absence of that other l-word, the one Monty is still too nervous to use.

 

 **Monty  
** You too!

 

He’s annoyed with himself as soon as he sends it, because of course he can’t convey the depth of his feelings for Nate in an _exclamation point_. But his eyes are already closing in spite of his efforts, so he files that problem away for a later date.

 

* * *

 

Monty wakes up the next morning and it’s like his entire body has gone on strike. His legs are leaden and painful, and even his arms hang limp and achy from his shoulders, which makes no sense because he didn’t even _use_ those muscles for hiking.

 

“I’m dying,” he announces to Jasper, limping into the kitchen.

 

“I told you,” Jasper says, not looking up from his computer. “Exercise kills.”

 

“Shut up and pour me some cereal,” Monty says. “Now that I’ve sat down, I don’t think I can get back up.” Jasper continues to give him shit, but he also pours Monty two bowls of Lucky Charms _and_ two mugs of coffee, because you don’t stay friends with someone for as long as they’ve been friends without some semblance of loyalty.

 

At around 11:00 am, Clarke texts him.

 

 **Clarke  
** i’m dying

 

 **Monty  
** i might be dead already

 

 **Clarke  
** why did you make me do this??

 

 **Monty  
** why did you tell bellamy we could do the harder trail?????

 

 **Clarke  
** i thought we could handle it????????

 

 **Monty  
** what gave you the impression we can handle anything??????????????

 

 **Clarke  
** fair point my bad

 

As the day goes on, it just gets worse. He manages to shuffle over to the couch, but every step is one of fiery agony. He texts Nate to call him when he’s off shift.

 

“Hey,” he says, when he gets the call. “How was work?”

 

“Fine,” Nate says, quick. “Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Monty says. “Just a bit sore.” It’s not a lie, really, because in like the macro sense, yes, he’s fine. Even if in the short-term, he feels like he’s on the brink of death and Jasper’s been chucking snacks across the room at him all day because he’s been too tired to walk to the kitchen.

 

“Want me to come get you?” Nate asks. And honestly, it’s a tempting thought: putting on that sweatshirt of Nate’s he’s unofficially claimed as his own and curling up with Nate on the couch, nodding off while Nate watches baseball.

 

Except he’s so fucking sore, and irritated at himself for being sore (and weak, and not-chiseled, and he didn’t even _make it to the top of the mountain_ ). So he stops himself. Nate doesn’t need to be privy to this mess.

 

“Actually,” Monty says, “I was going to stay here again tonight, if that’s okay. I’m pretty beat.”

 

Nate is quiet on the other end of the line.

 

“Nate?”

 

“Yeah, I’m here. That’s fine, Monty.”

 

It doesn’t sound fine.

 

“You sure?” Monty asks.

 

“Yeah,” Nate sighs. “Of course. Do what you need to do. I just...uh. Miss you.”

 

Monty sucks in a breath.

 

“I know it’s been like two days,” Nate continues, before Monty can say anything. “So that’s kind of weird to say, huh?”

 

“It’s not,” Monty assures him quickly. “It’s not at all. I miss you, too.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay,” Nate breathes. “Okay. See you soon?”

 

“Yeah, see you soon.”

 

Monty hangs up and twists onto his side on the couch, unable to shake the feeling of something tight and cold at the pit of his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Monty is somehow still sore on Thursday—which is _ridiculous_ —when Clarke calls him on his lunch break. He takes the call at his desk, still trying to figure out how this client could have possibly downloaded _this many viruses_ onto one computer.

 

“Let’s go hiking again,” she says, and Monty almost rage-hurls the phone at the floor.

 

“Excuse me?” he says, instead, because he is an adult in full control of his impulses. “I can’t have heard that right. You want to what?”

 

“Go hiking again,” Clarke repeats. “Saturday.”

 

“You’re kidding me.”

 

“I’m really not.”

 

“Let me guess,” Monty says, closing his eyes. “ _Bellamy_ wants to go hiking again.”

 

“Maybe,” Clarke admits. “But he mentioned you, too. I think he wants it to be, like, a group thing.”

 

“Still, wouldn’t it be better if I couldn’t make it? Leave you two alone for a bit?”

 

“Don’t abandon me,” Clarke pleads, like Monty doesn’t sneak away with Nate so she can hang out with Bellamy one-on-one all the damn time. But there’s no such thing as rationality when it comes to Clarke’s all-consuming crush on Bellamy, and Clarke’s his sister in all but name, so he just sighs.

 

“Fine. But seriously, this weekend? Can you honestly tell me your legs are going to be ready to do that again this weekend?”

 

“I can barely walk up stairs, so, probably not,” Clarke says. “But we’ll just do an easier trail. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

 

“When have we ever said that and had things end well?” Monty grumbles, but he’s chuckling so there’s not much bite to it.

 

He heads over to Nate’s after work, the first time he’s been over in a few days. They’ve had trouble coordinating schedules all week—which is perfectly normal, Monty keeps reminding himself—and Monty finds himself a little nervous after he knocks on Nate’s door for reasons he doesn’t want to dwell on.

 

But then Nate opens the door and the tension melts away. Nate smiles with something like relief and tugs Monty close, kissing him just a tad deeper than is really appropriate for the middle of the hallway. Not that Monty’s complaining.

 

“Hi,” Nate says, pulling back with a soft smile, and Monty just has to lean back in and kiss him all over again.

 

They eat Bellamy’s enchiladas—made with cheese, but “only because Clarke’s not here,” which is like the definition of petty—and they all watch Back to the Future, and by the time Monty heads to bed, he’s happy and full and perfectly relaxed.

 

That is, until Nate slides in next to him and says, “So, I hear we’re going hiking on Saturday?”

 

Monty freezes. “We?”

 

“Yeah,” Nate says, setting the alarm on his phone and sticking it on the nightstand. “Raven wanted to trade shifts, so I’m not working Saturday anymore. I thought I’d come.”

 

“Oh,” says Monty, which is clearly not the right response because Nate stiffens.

 

“Should I not come?” he asks, and god Monty _hates_ the look on his face: hesitant, almost hurt. Monty shakes his head.

 

“No, you should. If you want. I mean, it’s not...it’ll be a pretty lame hike, I think, but you should come. Clarke and Bellamy are super amusing to watch, if nothing else.”

 

Nate looks down at his lap.

 

“Seriously, Nate,” Monty says, reaching out to grab Nate’s hand. “You should come.”

 

He doesn’t know what else to do, so he brings Nate’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. When he looks up, Nate’s looking back at him with gentle eyes and a small smile.

 

“Okay.”

 

He pulls Monty close, and Monty lets himself be folded up in Nate’s arms, lets himself burrow his cheek against Nate’s chest.

 

 _Nate likes hiking_ , Monty reminds himself. _And you love Nate. You can do this. It might even be fun_.

 

* * *

 

It’s not fun.

 

A mid-week rainstorm has flooded out the trail they’d wanted to take, so Nate suggests a different, more advanced one. Monty, Clarke, and Bellamy all wince, but no one’s willing to admit out loud that this group has no business doing anything but walking in a circle, so the more advanced trail it is.

 

Nate assures them this trail is shorter, but it turns out shorter comes hand in hand with _steeper_ , which is really the bigger issue. Within ten minutes, Monty’s lungs are on fire and Clarke’s positively scowling, only barely covering it up each time Bellamy twists back to check that they’re okay.

 

Bellamy and Nate pull ahead, seeming to have no trouble with this hike whatsoever. In fact, they seem to be having a grand old time. Bellamy pretends to push Nate over the edge of the cliff, and Nate steals Bellamy’s baseball cap and wears it on top of his own, and Monty watches the whole thing like a grumpy, wheezing corpse trudging uphill towards the gates of hell.

 

“I feel like this is when I should say ‘I told you so,’” he says to Clarke.

 

“I know,” she moans. “You have full permission to never listen to anything I say ever again.”

 

“Thanks,” he mutters. “I’ll pretend you mean that.”

 

It turns out the real problem isn’t the slope, or his lung capacity, or his embarrassingly feeble muscles. No, the real problem winds up being his shoes. He still has a few blisters from last week’s hike, and he (stupidly) hadn’t anticipated that when shoved up against the insides of his sneakers once again, said blisters would crack open.

 

It’s agonizing, but Monty’s not about to say anything about it. Not when Nate’s quasi-smiling in the sun—impressive, given that he almost never smiles in public—and looking so at home out here amidst the trees and dirt and open sky. Monty’s not going to squelch his fun because of a few blisters, like he’s the group child.

 

That is, until they take a rest sitting on a couple of boulders. Clarke takes one look at his feet and says: “Shit, Monty.”

 

“It’s fine,” Monty lies, trying to scuffle his feet out of her sight.

 

“I can literally see blood on your socks, Monty,” Clarke insists, loud enough that there’s no way Nate and Bellamy won’t hear.

 

“What?” Nate asks, blinking over at them. “Monty?”

 

Monty hangs his head. Fuck it.

 

“Yeah I, uh...have some kind of rough blisters,” he explains, as lightheartedly as he can. “Anyone have some bandaids?”

 

“Shit, I don’t think I do,” Bellamy says, sounding so unbelievably disappointed in himself even when he’s the one who remembered to pack water bottles, sunscreen, sandwiches, and bug spray. They’d probably have died without him.

 

Nate comes to kneel in front of Monty, reaching for his feet— _god_ this is embarrassing—and Monty jerks them away.

 

“It’s fine,” he says. “I mean, you can’t really do anything about it. You don’t want to touch my sweaty feet.”

 

“Monty.” Nate’s looking up at him, so soft that Monty has to look away.

 

“I guess we should head back?” says Clarke, clearly trying to mask how hopeful she is that the hike will soon be over (and not quite succeeding). “I mean, you can’t keep hiking like that.”

 

Nate shakes his head. “I’ll head back down with him. You guys should keep going.” He leans forward to whisper in Monty’s ear: “Maybe if they spend some time alone together, Bellamy will stop whining about how pretty her hair is all the time.”

 

And even though Monty’s feeling pretty shitty, he can’t help but laugh at that.

 

“Okay,” Bellamy says, nodding.

 

“You sure, Monty?” Clarke asks, shooting him a look that clearly says _you promised you wouldn’t leave me alone, you traitor_.

 

Monty attempts to reply with a telepathic _you just said I don’t have to listen to anything you say ever again_ _so look, here I am, not listening to you_.

 

It must work, because Clarke flushes and rolls her eyes.

 

“Here,” Bellamy says, handing Nate his keys, “take my car. I’ll drive back with Clarke.”

 

“She might leave you for dead on the mountain, you know,” Nate says.

 

“I mean, probably,” says Bellamy, shrugging. “Whatever. I’ll take the risk.”

 

Clarke grins.

 

Once Clarke and Bellamy have continued on, Nate turns on his knee, offering his back to Monty.

 

“Get on,” he says, because this day just keeps getting worse. “I’ll carry you down.”

 

“No way,” Monty nearly squeaks. “Not necessary. I can just walk.”

 

Nate looks back over his shoulder, clearly skeptical, but he nods.

 

Monty regrets his choice almost instantly. His feet burn where his sneakers scrape against the exposed skin, and he’s so focused on stepping in such a way that he gets as little friction as possible that he can barely concentrate on what Nate is saying.

 

Eventually Nate stops, exhaling sharply.

 

“Okay,” he says. “That’s it. You need to stop making that noise.”

 

“ _Sorry_ ,” Monty snaps; he’s so tired. “I wasn’t aware I was making a noise.”

 

“No, it’s not…” Nate breaks off, huffing. “I’m not annoyed. It’s just, you’re in pain. Could you just get on my back?”

 

“But I—”

 

“Monty,” Nate interrupts. “Please.”

 

So Monty accepts defeat and crawls onto Nate’s back. It’s one of the more mortifying things that’s happened to him, but his feet sing with relief, and he supposes there are worse forms of humiliation than one that involves his arms flung around the rounded muscles of Nate’s shoulders.

 

“What do you think the chances are that Bellamy and Clarke will make out?” Nate asks, breaking the silence as they continue down the trail.

 

“In general? 1000 percent. Today? Who knows.”

 

“I think they will today,” Nate decides. “It’s time. I’m sick of them.”

 

“You’re sick of everyone,” Monty reminds him.

 

“Not you,” says Nate, hitching Monty higher.

 

Monty buries his face in Nate’s neck and chants Nate’s words on loop in his mind: _not you, not you, not you_.

 

* * *

 

Nate drives them straight back to his and Bellamy’s house without asking whether Monty would rather go home. Which is fine, because as much as Monty hates that Nate’s watching him unspool, he thinks he’d feel worse if Nate weren’t here. (Things always feel worse when Nate’s not here.)

 

They ride mostly in silence. When they get back, Monty heads for Nate’s room and Nate heads for the bathroom. By the time he’s returned, carrying a small medkit, Monty’s stripped off his shoes and socks and...yeah, it’s not great.

 

“Jesus, Monty,” Nate breathes.

 

“I know,” Monty says, looking down at the gnarly red splotches scattered along the ridges of his feet. “I haven’t worn those shoes in a while so I guess I should have anticipated this, but damn.”

 

“Can I, uh,” Nate says, his hands twitching at his sides. “Can I help?”

 

“I’ve got it,” says Monty. “Thanks.”

 

“Sure.”

 

He cleans himself up, which hurts almost as bad as walking in the sneakers did, and Nate sits on his side of the bed, flinching every time Monty yelps at the sting of bacitracin on his skin. This absolutely takes the cake for worst Saturday they’ve spent together thus far.

 

When he’s done, and his feet look sufficiently mummified in gauze, he turns to Nate, who pats the bed beside him.

 

Monty frowns. “You probably don’t want my gross feet on your bed.”

 

Nate just pats the bed again, so Monty hoists his legs up and leans back against the headboard. They sit in silence for a while, until Nate clears his throat.

 

“What’s going on, Monty?”

 

Monty deflates.

 

“It seems like something’s up,” Nate continues, looking down at his hands. “Is something up?”

 

Monty groans, dropping his chin to his chest. Might as well get this over with.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

 

Beside him, Nate is very quiet.

 

“I don’t really like hiking,” Monty continues. “Like, I understand the general appeal, I think? And long walks at a slight incline sound fine. But the super intense like _fitness_ hiking sucks, Nate. And more than that, I’m really _bad_ at it.”

 

He gestures feebly at his feet.

 

“And _that_ sucks, because hiking is pretty non-intense as far as athletic things go. So if I suck at hiking, that doesn’t bode super well for me liking very much else. And that makes me a pretty shitty boyfriend, if I hate or suck at all the things you love.”

 

Monty’s basically leaking gibberish all over the bed, but there’s no stopping him now that he’s started. He manages a quick glance over; Nate’s hands are clenched together, knuckles white.

 

“I saw a picture of Bryan on your phone,” Monty says; it’s like word vomit at this point. “I wasn’t snooping, I promise, it just came up. And it got me thinking, because he’s clearly just so much more your type. Like he actually enjoys doing things you enjoy doing, and I feel like I’m doing things I enjoy doing and making you do them with me? Which isn’t fair.”

 

“Monty,” Nate says, his voice flat. “What are you saying?”

 

Monty sighs. “I really want to make you happy,” he mumbles. “And I started thinking, maybe I’m doing a shitty job. I want to do better.”

 

A pause. And then Nate exhales, leaning back so that his head thunks against the headboard.

 

“Fuck, Monty.”

 

“Yeah?” Monty asks, miserably.

 

“I mean, just, _fuck_ , Monty. I thought you might have been breaking up with me.”

 

Monty startles. “What?! No!”

 

Nate scrubs a hand across his face. “You were being weird, but you wouldn’t talk about it. I knew it was about more than just hiking, so I thought…”

 

“Fuck,” Monty says, scrambling towards him. “Fuck, _fuck_ , I’m sorry! That’s not what I meant at all!”

 

He hoists a leg over Nate’s so that he’s straddling his lap, and the relief on Nate’s face breaks Monty’s heart a little.

 

“I am so sorry. The absolute last thing I want to do is break up with you. Oh my god, I can’t believe in trying to be a less shitty boyfriend I _made you think I was going to dump you_!”

 

Nate’s hands spread warm and comforting along Monty’s thighs. “You’re not a shitty boyfriend, Monty.”

 

Monty gives him a look like _have you not been listening to this batshit insane conversation we are having_ , and Nate huffs a laugh.

 

“And you don’t force me to do anything,” Nate continues. “I like hanging out with you. I like the things we do together. I really don’t give a fuck if you hate hiking.”

 

“But—”

 

“Monty.” Nate’s grip tightens on his legs. “Everyone’s different. And you are _not_ a shitty boyfriend, far from it. Hate what you hate. Like what you like. I’m already happy.”

 

Monty’s chest floods with warmth. “Oh,” he manages.

 

“Yeah. So next time, just tell me what’s going on, okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Monty laughs, reaching forward to cradle Nate’s cheeks in his palms. “I will.”

 

“Shit, Monty,” Nate mutters, eyes wide and serious. “I uh, I hope you know much…”

 

Monty acts on autopilot: he scrunches Nate’s cheeks together, cutting off whatever it was he was about to say.

 

Nate sputters, glaring up at him, but Monty doesn’t relent. He suspects Nate was about to say something nice, and goddammit, if anyone deserves to hear nice things right now, it’s not Monty. It’s Nate.

 

“I love you,” Monty blurts.

 

Nate blinks up at him.

 

“I just,” Mony trails off. “Yeah. Uh, that’s it. I love you.”

 

Nate lifts his arms and drags Monty’s hands away from his face; now that his cheeks are no longer cartoonishly smooshed, Monty can see that he is smiling.

 

“Yeah?” Nate asks, sounding a little breathless.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good.” He wraps his fingers around Monty’s. “Same.”

 

“Same, you love yourself? Or—”

 

But then Nate’s rolling his eyes and leaning forward and kissing him, deep and insistent. Monty laughs into it, wrapping his arms around Nate’s neck. And when he pitches forward against Nate’s chest because his legs are _still_ completely shot, well, Nate doesn’t seem to mind.

 

* * *

 

Monty’s lying with his head in Nate’s lap on the couch later that night when Bellamy and Clarke get home. They’re covered in sweat, and Clarke has a wide swipe of dirt across her cheek.

 

“How’d you guys make out?” Nate asks, not looking up from his book.

 

Bellamy chokes, and Clarke looks immediately away, cheeks flushed. Monty has to scrunch down to hide his laugh.

 

“With the hike,” Nate clarifies, dry. “How’d you make out with the hike?”

 

“Good,” Bellamy answers, a little shaky. “It was, uh. Good. It took longer than expected, because of the, uh—”

 

“Mud,” Clarke supplies. “There was, um. There was mud.”

 

“Sure,” Nate says. “Mud.”

 

“I’m going to shower,” Clarke says, eyes down and already beelining for the bathroom.

 

“I’ll start on the carbonara,” Bellamy says, heading just as fast in the opposite direction.

 

Monty twists his head around to look at Nate, eyebrows raised. “Carbonara has _cheese_ in it. They definitely made out.”

 

“Told you,” Nate says. “What do you owe me again?”

 

“I owe you nothing. We didn’t actually bet on this.”

 

Nate raises an eyebrow. “I carried you down a mountain today. You at least owe me for that.”

 

Monty rolls his eyes. “Cheap shot, but fine. What do I owe you?”

 

Nate grins, drumming his fingers across Monty’s stomach. “I think you should prove to me that you’re not as un-athletic as you think you are.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Monty asks, sucking in a breath as Nate’s hand sneaks beneath the hem of his shirt. “How should I do that?

 

“I have some ideas,” Nate says, smile sharp, and Monty smirks.

 

“You’re impossible.”

 

“You like that about me.”

 

“I _love_ that about you,” Monty corrects, and yeah, if he can make Nate smile like that, he really can’t be that terrible at this boyfriend thing after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many feelings about these two.
> 
> Come wail about the 100 with me on tumblr: [leralynne](http://leralynne.tumblr.com).


End file.
